


Eiliadau

by Gwyddelig



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Post-Series, Relationship Study, Vignette, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 8,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyddelig/pseuds/Gwyddelig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is made up of moments. They define us and our relationships with others. Experimental writing vignette series featuring moments which define Will and Bran's relationship after they meet back up at university. Originally Posted (@ FFnet) 29 July 2011 - 17 August 2011. Revision Completed 12 August 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cuppa

title: Cuppa

series: Eiliadau

theme: tea

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

**Note:**

cuppa /'kəpə/ Brit., informal. _n_.  a cup of tea;  _contraction of_ 'cup of'. origin 1920s: alteration.

 

He takes his tea in a small café on Magdalen whose name amuses him. His fingers, stained with ink and roughened by long hours turning dry pages, every so often reach up in an automatic, swift gesture to brush the fringe from his eyes -- neglecting the fact that it will return to its original position the moment it is released.

 

The tea, an aromatic cup of 'Prince of Wales', sits at his elbow, slowly going cold as he focuses his attention on the text in front of him. The jingle of the door chimes dance around him, unnoticed, as if they were merely some sound in the far distance and not the coming and going of persons through the tiny hole of a café.

 

It isn't until the chair across from him slides noisily along the tile of the floor that he notices his guest. Sharp, grey-blue eyes, ready to pin the interloper with an unwelcoming stare, lift from the tome he's been engrossed in, instead widening in surprise, a silent 'o' gracing winter-chapped lips.

 

" _Helo_ , Will," says the man, slipping, uninvited, into the vacant seat. "Fancy meeting you here." An arrogant grin splits his pale face, amber eyes twinkling in such a way as to suggest he hasn't come to this place by chance.

 

"Bran," the dark haired man returns with a smile. The expression of genuine delight, an awkward fit on the normally solemn countenance, sweeps away sad loneliness that usually resides there.

 

"You always were the only _Sais_ who pronounced my name correctly," he says in bemusement, the arrogance softening until naught but confidence and inborn dignity remain.

 

"You say it like it's a bad thing," Will teases, his tea and book forgotten.

 

Bran's chuckle is deep and throaty, a testament to time, and Will feels his heart flutter a little at the sound. "Never that," the pale man intones softly.

 

A long pause settles between them. It is neither comfortable, nor distressing. It neither races nor stands still. Rather it is merely a span, as if Time itself were sighing: heart beats, breaths, a lengthening moment absorbed between them.

 

When Bran speaks again his face is split by a teasing grin. "Magic Café, that's so like you, Will Stanton." There is a brief moment where Will feels a wash of cold-heat constricting his heart -- the mingling of half-fear and half-hope which is settled like rocks by Bran's next words. "You always were a mysterious kind of guy."

 

Disappointment makes a brief visit before Will can push it away. He shoves it down, like many times before, like always -- though it is becoming harder to hide, harder to keep at bay. Time and distance failing him now he is faced with the man who would be his Liege.

 

"It's right next to the book store," Will says by way of explanation as he averts his eyes, hiding as best he can from that searching, eagle-sharp gaze.

 

And whether for truth or molification, Bran accepts this.

 

They talk for a while, of this and that, of the years that have passed, of home and trivialities. They talk until Will's tea is long cold as well as long forgotten. And Will thinks, as Bran reaches a mitten warmed-hand across the table to clasp his own cool one, _Who needs tea anyway?_


	2. Deciding

title: Deciding

series: Eiliadau

theme: paperback novel

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

**Note:**

decide /diˈsīd/ _v._ 1\. come to a decision in the mid as a result of consideration. 2. cause to come to a resolution. 3. make a choice from a number of alternatives. 4. give judgment concerning a matter or legal case. 5. com to a decision about (something). 6. resolve or settle (a question or contest).

 

When Will was young, Bran would have described him as stocky, solid; but the man sitting across the table, with his signature fringe falling about his face and into his too old, grey-blue eyes, is thinner than he could remember Will ever being. Perhaps it's a combination of growth and the stress of University life, but Bran doesn't think it's healthy.

 

He studies the face -- the hollows of the once rounded cheeks, the pallor of the once sun-browned skin, the dark smudges under still large grey eyes -- and makes a decision.

 

"When's your lease up?" Just like that he sets the course - because he somehow knows, Will will follow his lead; and when the shop owner begins tapping his foot and giving them the evil eye, he merely turns his disconcerting, golden eyes on him and takes up Will's hand. "Let's grab a paper, some chips, and a pint and see what's what."

 

They leave the small shop and Will's now-cold tea, companied by the paperback novel, behind.


	3. Classifieds

title: Classifieds

series: Eiliadau

theme: ink pen

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

**Note:**

classified /ˈklasəˌfīd/ _adj._ 1\. arrange in classes or categories. 2. (of a newspaper or magazine advertisement or the pages on which these appear) organized in categories according to what is being advertised. 3. (of information or documents) designated as officially secret and to which only authorized people my have access. _n._ small advertisements placed in a newspaper and organized in categories.

 

Red ink on newsprint, like some kind of burning symbol. Tap hiss. "What about this one?"

 

"Too small."

 

The one room flat Will rents is warm, the afternoon breeze drifting in through drapeless windows.

 

"This one is near both our departments." Hiss tap. "I don't know, it could work." Hiss hiss crunch. "Stop chewing on the pen. You'll get red on you." Shuffle, pause. "I think we need a break."

 

Bran rises from his hunch over the worn, secondhand table. Will watches as he stands and stretches. "I guess we should call around," he lilts, moving to the cooler and fetching a couple iced drinks.

 

Will's eyes are still on Bran, face blank, even as the other hands him a can, condensation already prickling up on the exterior. Their fingers brush in the exchange, cool smooth and dry rough. Will feels his cheeks heat a little and looks away.

 

He vaguely wonders when he lost his cool, his control, but dismisses the question because he knows. He knows he lost it the moment Bran walked back into his life. He knows he won't get it back if Bran sticks around. But he also knows he doesn't really care.

 

"You alright there, boy _bach_?"

 

Will flushes further and shakes his head -- _No, I'm not._ and _Yes, I am._ \-- but declines further answer. "Should we phone first?"

 

The papers rustle, the sound of fingers pushing the numbers of their first choice. Crunch. "Shit."

 

"I told you so."

 

"Shut up, Bran."


	4. Stew

title: Stew

series: Eiliadau

theme: possessions

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

**Note:**  

stew /st(y)o͞o/  _n._ 1\. a dish of meat and vegetables cooked slowly in liquid in a closed dish or pan. 2. a state of great anxiety or agitation. _v._ 1\. cook (meat, fruit, etc) slowly in liquid in a closed dish or pan. 2. worry about something, esp. on one's own 3. (of tea) become strong and bitter with prolonged brewing

 

 

Bran has little in the way of possessions. His harp and two cases contain all he needs. Will is much the same -- his books are to him as Bran's harp -- though his flat is a little more furnished than the boarding room Bran had been renting.

 

Stepping into Will's studio residence, Bran unbuttons his light coat -- the weather had turned in the last week bespeaking of a hot summer to come -- and tosses his sunglasses down on the table. Will is out, but it's no matter, the landlord let him in. 

 

After a moment, deciding then to also remove the long red scarf, he turns to the brown paper grocery bags, retrieving and removing -- cans here, boxes there, vegetables on the washboard for chopping. He clatters about the kitchenette, dismayed by the lack of food in the cupboards -- tea, certainly, and coffee. Powdered milk and sugar. Food itself, however, is negligible. Bran intends to remedy that.

 

He hums as he catches down a largish pot and begins dumping in the ingredients for the stew, setting another pan out to make the roux. It almost surprises him, the fact that Will has the necessary utensils but not the necessary materials for cooking, almost. Will is the prepared type.

 

Once the stew is simmering, he washes up and sets the clean dishes to drain, snagging a cold drink from the cooler. 

 

Will returns sometime later, looking haggard and overheated, face pinched, tinged with red from too many layers and the wind what has picked up and is now battering the windows. "Something smells good," is his greeting as he drops his satchel and attempts to disentangle himself from scarf and jacket with fumbling, desperate fingers.

 

Bran grabs another can from the cooler, handing it to his friend as Will manages to loose the offending garnet.

 

"Thanks," Will mutters, "It was chilly this morning, when I went out… can't for the life of me…" and trails off as he finds the other man in his space. Bran hears the hitch of his breath and searches out blue-grey eyes. Will's expression is blank, but the stormy depths are in tumult, highlighted by the rising pink of his library-pale cheeks.

 

Bran breaks the tableau, giving the other an arrogant grin, an escape; eyes promising 'just this once'. "You're a mess, _bachgen_ ," he teases, mussing the shaggy, dark hair. "Sit, stew's almost done."


	5. Flush

title: Flush

series: Eiliadau

theme: packing tape

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

**Note:**

flush /fləSH/ _n._ 1\. a reddening of the face or skin, typically caused by illness or strong emotion. 2. a period when something is new or particularly fresh and vigorous. _v._ 1\. be cleansed in such a way 2. cause to be revealed; force into the open.

 

 

Will thinks it's sad that there is so little to pack, the furniture -- bed, trunk, warped table, and worn chair -- being the only real difference in his stack of possessions and Bran's. Further evidence that the small flat has never been a home.

 

The crack hiss of packing tape separating from the roll drags him back, reminding him that there are still things to box.

 

"Shouldn't take more than an hour," Bran is saying, sealing another small box -- utensils, Will thinks. "Then we can hit the charity shops and see what else we can pick up."

 

The use of the plural pronoun sends a shiver along Will's skin. It's been a while since he's considered himself part of a 'we'. Will would be the first to admit, at least to himself, that he's the one who's pulled away -- from friends, from family, from society… in so much as one can and still live in it. Now and again, he wonders if it's the right thing to do.

 

Will is an Old One, the Last of the Old Ones and the Watchman of the Light. He is apart and separate from the world of mortals. At least, that's what he tells himself. His litany.

 

"Boy _bach_ ," Bran urges, snapping his pale, slender fingers in front of Will's face. Blue-grey eyes blink, refocus. "There you are."

 

"Sorry, zoned out there," Will confesses, blushing. He finds himself doing that a lot lately, the blushing more so than the zoning out. Bran has that effect on him.

 

"I couldn't tell," the other drawled, rolling his striking amber eyes before fixing them on Will's face, lips quirked in his trademark arrogant grin. "Dreaming about me again?" he teases, causing Will to start, face paling this time. And though his expression remains neutral, Will can feel it fraying along the edges, his control slipping that little bit more.

 

Mentally he gathers himself. And really, what has he to lose? _Everything, nothing…_ "And if I was?"

 

If possible, Bran's grin grows more arrogant. "More's the better."


	6. Home

title: Home

series: Eiliadau

theme: windchimes

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**Note:**

home /hōm/ _n_. 1. the place where someone lives permanently 2. a place where something flourishes 3. a place where an object is kept 

 

 

The breeze that flutters through the window does little more than move the air around; but, Bran decides, it's better than if it were still. They're both sticky from the heat, hair and shirts clinging to their skin. Their purchases lie scattered about them with neither willing to do more than lie there with them.

Bran muses that the day is almost unnaturally warm for late Spring, and wonders fleetingly if the weather is being contrary just to spite them. He thinks it is.

In a fit of energy, Will drags himself off the floor, leaving a damp imprint on the dark wood. For a moment he rummages through one of the many bags - dark hair hanging around his face in limp, wet strands which curl slightly at the ends - before drawing out a package in muted triumph.

Bran merely lifts an eyebrow - the extent of his contribution to the effort - watching as Will stands without a word, newspaper wrapping tumbling to the floor in the wake of soft tinkling.

The windchimes dance in the breeze as Will hooks it over a lonely nail embedded in the window frame, probably used by the previous tenants for the same purpose. "There, we're officially moved in," he proclaims, hesitantly giving Bran a boyish grin.

_It's good to see him smile_ , Bran thinks, grinning back. He also thinks Will is too repressed for his own good -- too old too soon and far too solitary. He wants to make Will smile more often, wants to see that light in the other's eyes, the same light he saw that day not too long ago in the café. He wants things he doesn't have words to explain. But most of all, he wants Will in all the ways he can have him; and he knows Will wants him, too. He knows because he's heard him in his sleep, heard his whispered sighs and gasped pleas.

"Gimme a hand up, _boyo_ ," he calls, pale hand raised in askance. However, instead of allowing Will to pull him up, he topples him. 

Grey-blue eyes widen dramatically as Will flails, growing wider still as Bran rolls them over, pinning the dark haired young man mercilessly to the floor. For a frozen moment, there is silence, broken only the sound of their breathing -- even the breeze has stilled, the windchime ceasing its melodic dance, as if Time itself has paused, holding its breath at the precipice.

Bran's amber eyes fix on Will's grey ones, taking in the perspiration wetting the thick lashes, the rosy tinge to the skin, the turmoil in the lurid grey depths. "Bran?" Will whispers, little more than a ghost of sound in the air between them.

Soft lips to soft lips, chaste, careful -- like gentling a skittish colt. "I dream about you, too."


	7. Exposed

title: Exposed

series: Eiliadau

theme: peeling paint

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

**note:**

exposed /ikˈspōz/ _v._ 1\. make (something) visible, typically by uncovering it. 2. cause someone to experience or be at risk of. 3.leave or put (someone) in an unprotected and vulnerable state. 4. make (something embarrassing or damaging) public. 5. reveal the true and typically objectionable nature of (someone or something). 6. introduce someone to (a subject or area of knowledge)

 

 

Will stares at the walls. He thinks he might be like these walls, thick layers of paint, peeling in places to expose the raw surface below. He thinks that's how it is, just being around Bran. How the more they are together the more layers are pealed away, exposing more of himself that has been hidden, held back. He wonders if it's wise, if he can handle it all. If eventually it will leave him crumbling like aged plaster.

Will still has his secrets, things that are necessary for him to keep hidden - but he also desperately wants to share them, to have someone to share them with. To share them with Bran.

He's afraid, he reasons. Bran had chosen to forget as a child, and Will won't make him remember -- doesn't even know if he can. Won't, even as much as he wants to, wants someone else to know, wants someone to help him bear the burden. He's afraid he won't be able to keep his secret from Bran. He's afraid that if he tries, it will tear them apart, tear him apart. And just as much, he's afraid that sharing, that Bran remembering, will do the same.

The fear knots his stomach and keeps him awake, even now, in the dead of night. He needs Bran, needs what Bran can give him - his humanity, his soul - but he fears the risk is too great.

"Your thinking is keeping me awake," Bran grumbles, shifting and throwing an arm over Will's stomach.

"Sorry," Will whispers, breath hitching at the contact. They've yet to go beyond the most chaste of connections and Bran understands that Will isn't ready for more, that Will is afraid -- maybe not of what precisely, but that he is. And for now he's content with Will's concession to share the bed instead of his buying one which would eventually -- hopefully -- go to disuse.

Bran grunts a bit as he shifts up to lean on one arm, looking down on Will in the dark. "You're wound tighter than a spring," he observes, concern lacing his voice as a hand traces up to feather through soft strands. "It's not me is it?"

"No-- yes-- I mean, not really, it--" Will struggles with the words, his desire to tell Bran everything and his need to keep it all from him choking them off.

"What's wrong, Will _bach_?" Bran asks, so gently that Will can't _not_ say anything.

"Nothing - everything - oh Bran." He thinks he might cry, his center, his calm eroded by strain -- torn in two as he is by his opposing needs. His clenched fists dig crescent shaped marks in his palms, nails biting into his skin and grounding him a bit - the only outward sign of his struggle.

His nerves feel like they're tightening, trying to hold him in, trying to suffocate him, even as his mask frays, shreds, peels away like old paint exposed to the roaring sea, falling apart. "You know you can tell me anything," is the soft reply, shattering him further.

In his head, a voice murmurs that he could tell. He could tell then take it away, make Bran forget all over again, but he could tell. And maybe, maybe it would be enough -- or maybe it would break him further, the secrets, the lies, the knowing, the betrayal.

The thought leaves an unpleasant taste in Will's mouth. He doesn't think he could make Bran forget again, even if the other hated him for it.

"And if it sounded outrageous?" Will finally ventures, eyes on the dark ceiling, the dark walls, anything but Bran's warm, accepting gaze -- an irony, he thinks, one of the Light taking refuge in the dark. He tries to hold onto his mask, his Old One self, his last shreds of composure.

The soft kiss against his ear startles him more than the airy whisper. "Anything."


	8. Acceptance

title: Acceptance

series: Eiliadau

theme: coin jar

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**Note** :

acceptance /akˈseptəns/ _n._ 1\. the action of consenting to receive or undertake something offered. 2. agreement with or belief in an idea, opinion, or explanation. 3. willingness to tolerate a difficult or unpleasant situation.

 

 

Bran doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about Will's revelation. Truth be told, he doesn't quite know _what_ to think about it. In a way, it makes a lot of sense. Will always had been a bit odd. But it was, as Will had said, a bit outrageous.

 

It doesn't change how he feels; nor does it really change how he sees Will, not really. Will is still Will. Still the odd young man, quiet, thoughtful, but now (a little) less mysterious, now he's _more_.

 

What he does think about is his own memories, because the hardest part is reconciling what is in his head with what Will has told him. He doesn't doubt that Will is telling the truth -- the Old One seems incapable of lying, at least to him. He can feel it in the dark haired man's words, knows it deep within himself. He wonders if Will can help with that, can make him remember.

 

It's Saturday morning and Will is standing in the foyer, hands shoved in his pockets, posture relaxed -- but that's all it is, posturing. Seemingly without thought, he pulls out a handful of coins and drops them into the coin jar by the door. The change clinks as it joins its fellows.

 

There are faint circles under the Englishman's eyes -- remnants of the previous night's outpouring and his ongoing stress. He waits there like he's expecting Bran to leave, or make him leave, like he's resigned to it, like it's already fact and simply has yet to come to pass.

 

He stands there, face placid, accepting and Bran just wants to shake him, to make him realise that Bran isn't going anywhere, not now, not ever -- no matter how fucked up or outrageous or complicated things are. Instead he simply walks over to the other man and slips a hand along the pale column of Will's neck to brush a thumb over the still too hollow cheek -- that, at least, is something he can set about taking care of more readily.

 

"Silly, _dewin_ ," he teases softly, the nickname pouring from his lips like a tinkling memory out of reach, like the promise it is -- _I'm not going anywhere, understand?_ \-- and places a gentle kiss on the tense man's cool lips. He's rewarded by a sigh as Will returns the caress, relaxing a fraction. It might take a bit, but Bran will make him see, will make him believe. _You don't have to be alone._


	9. Listening

title: Listening

series: Eiliadau

theme: electric hum

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**Note:**

listen/ˈlisən/ _n_. an act of listening to something. _v._ 1\. to give one's attention to a sound. 2. to take notice of and act on what someone says. 3. to make an effort to hear something; be alert and ready to hear something. 

 

 

There is sound, even in silence. Will knows this. He knows that it's when the world is otherwise silent you can hear the what really matters.

Tonight he's awake, but not like he was the last night. Tonight he's not filled with dread and fear and tension, but with a tranquility he's only ever known whilst walking hand in hand into the Lost Land with his Liege. Absently taking stock of the sounds around him -- the sounds filling the silence -- he relaxes.

In the other room, the new air conditioner drones on softly, contentedly cooling. The faucet in the bath leaks, dripping water slowly wearing away the porcelain around the drain. Somewhere above a board creaks.

If he listens closer he can hear the hum of the aged cooler, the occasional crack of ice settling, and outside the window the buzz of a streetlamp.

But most importantly, he hears the soft hush of breathing beside him. The gentle sound of life and slumber that tells him that Bran is there, that he's not some figment dreamt up, but solid and real.

Will smiles softly in the dark, rolling over to pillow his head on Bran's shoulder, listening to the gentle hiss of his fingers over the fabric of Bran's t-shirt and the soft shifting sounds of two bodies adjusting to fit together.


	10. Chapter 10

title: Constant

series: Eiliadau

theme: emergency candles

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**Note** :

constant /ˈkänstənt/ _adj_. 1. occurring continuously over a period of time. 2. remaining the same over a period of time. 3. (of a person) unchangingly faithful and dependable.

 

 

Flash. Crash. "Crap." Sudden darkness, no light save for the blue-white streaks of lightning across the pitch of stormy nighttime sky. The hiss of rain on the sill lets them know the bottom's dropped out even as a thunderous boom rattles the aged panes.

"Got a match?"

Flick hiss.

"There're some candles around here somewhere."

"Didn't know you were a romantic, _boyo_ ," Bran teases, his grin illuminated by the flickering match.

Will ignores him, focused on the task at hand. "Found them." Light, dim and flickering, dances in the small space of the living room.

"Ow! Shit!"

"Here, let me see." Soft touch, gentle hands. It's really not all that bad, more a shock than an actual hurt; but he won't confess that, not with Will's attention on him, Will's hands cradling his, Will's touch -- delicate, careful not to cause more pain.

He wonders how long the lights will stay out, wonders how long the storm will rage. The thunder is closer now, lightning sending blue silhouetted shadows dancing across the walls.

The living room is still barren save for the pathetic table and chair they'd rescued from Will's old flat, not the most comfortable places to relax while they wait out the storm.

"C'mon," he urges, grabbing the candle and tugging the dumbfounded young man in the direction of the bedroom. "We might as well get comfortable." Another shuddering crash of thunder and dancing blue-white light. Conscientiously Bran flips the switch as they leave the room - no sense blowing a perfectly good bulb in the surge of returning power.

"Here," he says gently, pushing the Englishman toward the bed. Finding a safe spot for the fickle flame, Bran joins Will, enfolding him in his arms. He settles them both against the pillows, leaning back and relaxing. "Best seat in the house," he declares as another flash illuminates the room.

It occurs to Bran, in-between the flashes of lightning and the rumble of thunder, that Will is like their emergency candle: shining in the dark, a constant light in the raging storm. He's not sure how comfortable this realisation is -- the sudden awareness that long after Bran himself is dust and forgotten memory, long after the world has come to an end, until the end of time, that Will... Will will be there. That, as surely as storms pass and lightning fades, Will will always remain. It's a bit unnerving to think about, disquieting really. And it leaves a subtle ache in his chest that threatens to break his heart if he considers it too long. So for the time being, he pushes it to the back of his mind and wraps his arms a little tighter around the other's shoulders and watches the tempest wreak havoc on the night sky.


	11. Wishing

title: Wishing

series: Eiliadau

theme: lost in thought

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**note** :

wish /wiSH/ _n._ 1\. a desire or hope for something. 2. an expression of such a desire. 3. an invocation or recitation of a hope or desire. _v._ 1\. to feel or express a strong desire or hope for something that is not easily attainable; to want for something that cannot or probably will not happen. 2. to silently invoke such a hope or dream, esp. in a ritualised way. 3. to feel or express a desire to do something. 4. to ask to do something or that something be done.

 

 

Will is quiet by nature. It's not unusual to find him lost in thought, drifting within the seas of his own mind be they gentle or turbulent. He tends to over-think things, to worry a decision to death before giving into action.

Bran finds him this way, staring down into a cup of tea as if the escapist bits of leaves hold the answers to the mysteries of the universe. "Nothing but tea in that cup, I'm afraid," the Welshman points out, drawing Will from his musings.

Grey-blue eyes, the colour of early seaside dawn, lift to meet tawny amber orbs, a smile crinkling the corners. Will doesn't think he could give this up any time soon, this thing he has with Bran. It makes him giddy-happy, but his happiness also is tinged with sadness. Sometimes, in his moments of darkest despair, he wishes that this could last forever, would never end -- even beyond the bounds of time. That they had eternity together instead of a handful of years. But that is not something even an Old One has the power to grant.

"Do you regret it?" Will asks spontaneously, abruptly breaking out of his woolgathering with a force that startles them both. He hadn't meant to voice the question, but now that he has... "Knowing now, do you regret choosing a mortal life over a life out of time, a life with your true father, eternity?"

Bran's look of surprise at Will's outburst melts into a thoughtful mien as he considers the question. It's the first time since that night not so long ago that the subject has been broached and Will finds himself holding his breath.

"I can't rightly say I do," Bran says softly -- the response lingering in the air between them for a brief, eternal moment. Bran smiles, eyes glittering as he continues. "If I had chosen to go, I wouldn't be here now, with you. I wouldn't have this." He reaches over to tangle his fingers with Will's, brushing a thumb over the soft inner wrist, caressing the pulse point. "Do you? Regret it ,that is."

Will stares at their interlaced fingers, rough and calloused and real. He wants to say no, that he doesn't regret it one bit; but the truth is sometimes he does. Sometimes he regrets that, in a way, Bran choosing to stay was Bran choosing to give Will up along with his heritage, his place, his very nature, and, eventually, his life -- even if they are together now, if Bran had chosen otherwise, they would have been together always, beyond the ends of time - but only at the end of time. Sometimes he regrets that there wasn't another choice -- Bran is his Liege, his Lord, his… love.

Slowly this time, as if out of a fog, Will looks at Bran, taking him in: the pale, almost colourless skin -- the tawny, cat-like eyes -- the strong, regal features and bearing. "I can't," he whispers, voice hanging up on the words as he tries to express himself. "I can't like it entirely, but I can't regret it. You can't know--"

"No, I can't," Bran agrees, squeezing Will's hand. And Will wishes he could make Bran remember, make Bran _know_.

"I wish you could," Will replies, sadness once again colouring his words, though these pass easier from his lips. Bran gives him a look so warm and so honest that Will's heart aches all the more for that which he must one day lose.

"Me too, _cariad_ , me too."


	12. Reminder

title: Reminder

series: Eiliadau

theme: in the back of the drawer

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**note** :

reminder /riˈmīndər/ _n._ 1\. a thing that causes someone to remember something. 2. a message or communication designed to ensure that someone remembers something. 3. a letter sent to remind someone of an obligation, esp. to pay a bill.

 

 

It's the junk stuffed in the back of the drawer that reminds Bran, makes him think about the things he's forgotten and things he almost remembers. It's the bits, like old movie ticket stubs and hospital bands, that make him think about dreams like memories trying to surface, only to slip from his grasp upon waking. It's the words that linger and haunt him that make him wonder. 

 

He forgets all of it, though, as Will slips up behind him, arms sliding around Bran's trim waist as if they belong there, as if they were made to fit -- two halves of a whole.

 

There is triumph in the body pressed against his at the daring move, at taking the initiative; and Bran silently smiles in approval even as he turns, kissing Will's soft lips and pulling the Englishman closer.

 

"I got a letter from Mum today," Will says, pulling back only enough to look Bran in the eye. Will is shorter, but only by a few inches, and younger, but only by a few months; but there are times when Bran feels like Will is tall, far taller than his stature suggests, and old, far older than his still tender years.  "She wants us to visit before Michaelmas term begins."

 

Will's parents, like Owen Davies, don't know yet about them, about the nature of their relationship -- though Bran suspects they have an inkling. It's too new, he tells himself, too uncertain to give voice to -- but if there is something their relationship is not, it's uncertain. Bran knows that if there is a person meant for him in this world, it is Will Stanton -- and as surely as Bran knows this, he feels it is the same for Will. He doesn't need to remember to know this is true.

 

"That's nice," he replies, smile transforming into the arrogance he's so well known for as he continues. "I hope they don't mind us sharing a room," he says, just to see Will blush.


	13. Welsh

title: Welsh

series: Eiliadau

theme: coloured glass

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**Note:**

welsh /wel SH/ _adj._ of or relating to Wales, its people, or their Celtic language. _n._ 1\. the Celtic language of Wales. 2. ( **the Welsh** ) the people of Wales collectively. _v._ (also welch, **welsh on** ) fail to honor (a debt or obligation incurred through a promise or agreement).

 

 

There are coloured glass transoms in the living room, their colours dancing on the walls in the late afternoon light. The room is no longer unfurnished, no longer an empty space needing filling, but a lived in space, comfortable and comforting. A few pictures grace the walls and they have managed to find a well-worn second-hand sofa at the charity shop for a fair price. 

 

Will thinks he likes the floor cushions the best, larger tufted things that squish when you sit on them. He tends to pile them in a corner by the window, sipping tea as he watches the sun rise.

 

He's sitting in that same spot, nursing a cuppa and watching the dancing play of light, when Bran returns. Will listens to the soft jingle of keys and the rattling fight of the aged doorknob and thinks he could definitely call this home.

 

" _S'mae_ , Will," Bran calls, the thud of the door intruding on his words. "I've brought take away, hope you don't mind." Bran doesn't like to cook, Will knows -- not that he can't cook, mind you, but he's spoiled on Aunt Jen's cooking. Will can't argue, cooking is something he's really only recently acquainted with, but he does try occasionally to make a meal. Bran hasn't complained too much about his attempts.

 

" _Croeso ardef_ ," is the English accented return. Will's Welsh isn't perfect, but he enjoys it -- enjoys learning it and using it with Bran. He knows where Bran is from there are plenty of people who speak it; but here, in Oxford, it's not as common; here it is something that belongs to them.

 

Bran smiles as he drops the bags on the table, pulling out cartons and setting them out. " _Diolch_ , not bad for a _Sais_ ," he comments teasingly. "Soon enough you'll sound like a proper Welshman."

 

Will grins back brightly, grabbing silverware and opening the cartons. " _Ffwciai oma_ ," he chimes in response.

 

There is a soft choking noise before Bran bursts out into startled laughter, grabbing Will around the shoulders and kissing him on the forehead. _Yes_ , Will thinks, _this is certainly home._


	14. Trying

title: Trying

series: Eiliadau

theme: persistence of memory

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**Note:**

trying /ˈtrī-i ng/ _adj._ difficult or annoying; hard to endure. _v._ 1\. make an attempt or effort to do something. 2. make severe demands on (a person or a quality, typically patience). 3. (usu. **be tried** ) subject (someone) to trial. 4. _chiefly Brit._ smooth (roughly planed wood) with a plane to give an accurately flat surface. 5. extract (oil or fat) by heating. _n._ 1\. an effort to accomplish something; an attempt. 2. _Rugby_ an act of touching the ball down behind the opposing goal line, scoring points and entitling the scoring side to a goal kick.

 

 

Memory is a funny thing, Bran thinks. He remembers Will telling him about things, things Bran isn't supposed to remember, is supposed to have forgotten; but there are times when he thinks he does remember, when a clear picture sets itself in line with something Will has said happened.

 

But he's not sure, can't be sure. How is he to know if it really is a bit of memory returning or if it's just his vivid imagination playing on what Will has said. It's almost enough to drive him mad, at times.

 

"I want you to try," Bran decides, ignoring the haunted look and the sudden pallor of Will's cheeks. "You said you can make me forget, so what's to say you can't make me remember."

 

"Bran-- the High Magic--"

 

Will is hesitant, clenching his fists in the hem of his shirt, nervousness rolling off him in waves. Bran knows Will has been pushing aside his nature, has been avoiding it in angry resistance; he also knows Will is desperate to give this a chance, he's merely afraid.

 

"High Magic be damned," is the solid response, unwavering, resolute. "If it doesn't work, it doesn't work, but we won't know until we try."


	15. Outing

title: Outing

series: Eiliadau

theme: revelation

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**note** :

outing /'outiNG/ _n._ 1\. a trip taken for pleasure, esp. one lasting a day or less. 2. a brief journey from home. 3. the act or practice of revealing the homosexuality of a person

 

 

It's about an hour by train from Oxford to Bucks. Paul picks them up at the station, shoving them into a beat up old station wagon with cheerful haste. Introductions are made, and Will is pleased that Paul doesn't bat an eyelash at Bran's appearance. Of course, Paul is used to 'unusual' people -- he has Will for a brother.

 

At the house they tumble out, a flurry of arms and legs and luggage, clattering through the backdoor and into the heart of the Stanton family home. Will manages, only just, to introduce Bran before the horde descends upon them -- smothering hugs, slaps on the back, and warm welcomes shared equally from their ever growing family.

 

It's a small eternity before they're left to shuffle their bags off into Will's old attic room, bunked together by the sheer coincidence of a full house.

 

The room is much as Will'd left it, unused but clean. There are fresh linens on the bed and a few trinkets out of place from dusting, but otherwise unchanged. For Will it's almost like stepping back in time, back to days uncomplicated by the battle between the Light and the Dark, back to an innocence he sometimes feels robbed of.

 

He realises he's gotten lost in thought again when he feels Bran's arms around his waist, hugging him from behind in silent understanding. They're standing that way, lost in the comfort of each other, when a soft cough sounds from the doorway. Will's heart nearly leaps out of his chest as they jump apart in surprise. With heart-sinking dread, he turns to face the interloper, afraid of what he'll find.

 

Alice Stanton stands in the door, work-worn hands on her hips, expression unreadable -- but only for an instant before her gentle face melts into a soft smile. "You look like a child caught sneaking biscuits before tea," she chuckles, slipping into the room and easing the door shut behind her.

 

"Mum…" Will begins, unsure of what he should say. 

 

She shushes him, saying, "I've known for a while now that you were different, Will.  It was only a matter of time before you let me know that you knew it, too."

 

Will is all awkwardness and overflowing emotions and no amount of gramarye can help him here. Here, like so many moments in recent times, here Will is nothing more than a young man. "Mum," he rasps, his voice husky with emotion. "This is… my boyfriend." The word, he feels, is awkward and stupid coming from his lips -- only in part because Bran is so much more, because the English word is too shallow to express all that Bran is to him.

 

And when she replies, her tone is so loving, so accepting that Will wonders why he ever thought it would be otherwise. "Welcome to the family, Bran."


	16. Zenith

title: Zenith

series: Eiliadau

theme: shag carpet

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**note** :

zenith /ˈzēniTH/ _n._ 1\. the highest point reached by a celestial or other object. 2. the point in the sky or celestial sphere directly above an observer. 3. the time at which something is most powerful or successful.

 

 

There is a stillness to the night, a reverence in the darkness, as if it is sentient, as if it understands. The air is cool against their skin; strange, Bran thinks, in contrast to the tickling heat beneath, between.

 

He finds himself noticing little things: the rug, soft beneath his hand, silky fibres like grass growing up between his fingers; the light from the moon, silver and gentle, glimmering off beads of sweat; the hitch of Will's breathing, just so, almost inaudible.

 

His own blood is thrumming in his ears, heart beating a desperate staccato in his chest as he is overwhelmed, awash and lost in a sea of feeling, crashing and reabsorbed like breakers upon the sea.

 

And when their eyes meet, glittering in the wan light, he breathes one word -- softly, meaningfully -- into Will's damp hair. " _Cariad_."


	17. Wake

title: Wake

series: Eiliadau

theme: sunrise

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 **note** :

wake /wāk/ _v_. 1. emerge or cause to emerge from a state of sleep; stop sleeping. 2. become alert to or aware of. 3. cause to stir or come to life. 3. hold a vigil beside (someone who has died). _n_. 1. a trail of disturbance left by one's passing. 2. in reference to the aftermath or consequences of something.

 

 

Will breathes in the scent of the morning, light casting red through his still closed eyelids. He's reluctant to accept waking, comfortable and contented as he is.

 

Beneath his cheek, Bran's chest rises and falls with the rhythm of sleep; and Will almost allows it to lull him, to draw him back down into the land of dreams. Instead he focuses on sensation -- soaking up the feel of Bran beside him, the feel of the warm sun on his skin, the tranquility of moment.

 

He opens his eyes ever so slightly, watching the play of colours from the transom, tracing the blinking dance of light decorating Bran's pale skin as leaves move and transform the pattern.

 

There is a feeling of being out of time, in this moment that is neither sleeping nor waking, and Will revels in it. He lays there, silent in stillness, until Bran begins to rouse.

 

" _Bore da,_ Will _cariad_ ," Bran murmurs softly, warm breath ruffling Will's sleep mussed hair.

 

Encouraged, Will shifts, tilting his head to rest his chin on the lean white chest. He lets one hand drift up to brush long white strands of hair from Bran's face, drifting down again to stroke a slightly stubbled cheek. He falters for a moment, still unused to such intimacy, even now.

 

Before he can retract his wandering hand, Bran catches it, dropping a soft kiss to the cup of his palm. " _Rwy'n dy garu di, am byth._ "


	18. Contretemps

title: Contretemps

series: Eiliadau

theme: after the storm

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**note** :

contretemps /ˌkôNtrəˈtäN/ _n._ 1\. an unexpected and unfortunate occurrence. 2. a minor dispute or disagreement. 3. _lit. fr._ 'motion out of time'

 

 

There's a light on in the hallway, shining in through the bedroom door, casting a square of incandescent yellow across the bed. It's well past midnight and Will is long asleep.

 

Bran watches from the doorway, his own shadow cast down and across, dancing over the folds of the sheets, slipping over the duvet. He takes in the rise and fall of Will's breathing, the faintest hint of moisture on the dark lashes and he wonders if he should sleep on the sofa.

 

It had been silly really, the whole mess. It couldn't be called a fight, Bran knew -- it took two participants to fight. No, Bran had railed and Will had stood there silently, his face that blank mask he so often hides behind -- and Bran had lost it and stormed out.

 

Now he feels like a heel.

 

There's a soft rustle from the bed and a husky, sleep broken "Bran?" from the mound.

 

"I'm sorry," tumbles out, his accent heavy and thick with honest regret.

 

Will's response is a weary, half-awake, "Come to bed, Bran. We'll talk about it in the morning." And Bran knows that he's forgiven, knows that they'll work it out, that they'll talk and apologise and be back on track, and the better for it. But in the morning. Now… now he shucks his clothes and climbs in beside Will, hesitating only a moment before drawing the other into his arms. Will sighs softly, relaxing into the embrace, a murmured "love you" falling from his lips as he drifts once more into slumber.

 

And Bran smiling, follows.


	19. Midwinter

title: Midwinter

series: Eiliadau

theme: unspoken

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

Will wonders if he could make it work, if his Magic and Bran's inherent nature would be sufficient to break the bonds set in place by the Lords of the High Magic. He's afraid to try, to hope, and fail. He knows the simple spell has little to no effect. Will would know or Bran would have said something by now if it had.

 

So he figures if Bran wants it, Will is going to have to find a greater spell. He knows that at the very least, he has time. He knows the spells to extend a mortal's life, he'd merely forgotten, wrapped up in his own misery. But Bran _knows_ \-- he knows, if not remembers. So Will can use it, if Bran wants, he can give Bran longer life and they can keep trying to break the seal. They have time.

 

-

 

Mid-winter is the time of highest power, for the Dark and the Wild Magic. But the Dark is no more and Will Stanton is the last of the Old Ones, come into his power on Mid-Winter's Day. He thinks that this might give him an advantage. He thinks that he might even be able to call upon the Wild Magic to aid him in his quest -- personal though it may be.

 

He wonders too, if _loving bonds_ , a power stronger than even that of the High Magic, might could lend itself to their task.

 

It is fortunate, he thinks while making his preparations, that one of the Old Ways lies so close, that he and Bran will be in Bucks for Mid-Winter and through Twelfth Night. 

 

-

 

The greetings are hardy -- his mother taking his face in her hands, murmuring "No longer my little boy", tears in her eyes. Will gives her a smile, gentle and sweet, and tells her he'll always be her little boy. She ruffles his hair so his fringe falls in his eyes, then turns to greet Bran with a warm hug.

 

The whole family knows about them now and they greet Bran as one of their own, good naturally teasing the pair of them as tradition demands. James suggests rather loudly that Bran make an honest 'woman' of Will, earning himself a none-too-gentle punch on the shoulder and a reminder that liver and bacon is on the menu for the following evening.

 

Evening finds them bundled up, cajoled into carolling with little effort. And Will realises he's never sung for Bran. In fact, Bran hasn't heard him sing since that time as a child, by the Bearded Lake, when Will sang a song of the Old Ones and brought the Lady to Jane. 

 

He sings now, not as an Old One whose haunting melody is a spell cast in a pure sweet trill, but as Will Stanton, the man; Will Stanton who loves Bran Davies. He sings now, not for his family or for the people they carol to, but for Bran, his voice rich and full.

 

Bran smiles at him as the song ends, gloved hand reaching to hold WIll's own. And despite the cold, Will feels warm.

 

-

 

They slip out before dawn and Will considers stopping time like that Mid-Winter's morning so many years before. He decides against it, knowing that the Magic he is to work will take all the power he has -- if not more.

 

It's cold, a light frosting of snow covering the ground, dusting the fields and trees in glittering white. They walk slowly, hand in hand, avoiding the icy patches and puddles of slush created by passing cars. When Rook's Wood is upon them and they can see what once was Dawson's farm, they stop.

 

Will takes a deep breath, the bite of the air stinging his lungs, his grey-blue eyes locked on Bran's. Time seems to freeze of its own volition as they stand there, hands intertwined, breathe misting in the air. 

 

Anticipation thrums wildly along his nerves and Will's heart pounds in his chest as he glances down at their joined hands, silently praying to any who might hear. When he looks up, his is no longer Will Stanton the man, but the Old One, the calm and powerful Watchman of the Light.

 

"It is time."


	20. Coda

title: Coda

series: Eiliadau

theme: disillusionment of time

fandom: The Dark is Rising Sequence

pairing: Bran/Will

 

 

**note** :

coda /ˈkōdə/ _n._ 1\. the concluding passage of a piece or movement, typically forming an addition to the basic structure. 2. the concluding section of a dance, esp. of a pas de demux or the finale of a ballet in which the dancers parade before the audience. 3. a concluding event, remark, or section.

 

 

Bran loves to see Will smile. It gives him a feeling of contentment and a certain amount of power to be able to put it there. He likes to see this Will -- the Will who, if not carefree, is at least happy.

 

He thinks how simple it was, and yet not simple at all, to have brought back that smile. He thinks of all the things they've gone through and all the things that have yet to come their way. He thinks about all these things and more, lips pressed against Will's, smiling into their kiss.

 

Bran feels like a weight has been lifted, like the shackles that have been holding them down have fallen away and the world is open anew, eternity standing welcomingly before them.

 

He breaks the kiss, thumb running over Will's cheek, amber eyes locked on shining grey-blue. There's a light in those sea mist eyes that hasn't been there since they were children, since that day by the midsummer tree -- and Bran will do anything to keep it there.

 

With a quick move, Bran plants another ardent kiss on Will's lips before releasing him. "Let's get a dog," he says, grinning like mad as the future opens before his eyes, reflected in Will's unfolding smile.

 

 

 

 

_Diwedd y gân yw'r geiniog._

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary
> 
> Sais - Englishman  
> bach - little, wee  
> bachgen - boy  
> boyo - slang for boy (old, nowadays used mockingly, some consider offensive)  
> dewin - wizard  
> cariad - beloved, love (endearment)  
> S'mae - hello, alright (informal greeting)  
> Croeso ardef - Welcome home (North Wales)  
> Diolch - thanks  
> Ffwciai oma - Fuck off  
> Bore da - good morning  
> Rwy'n dy garu di - I love you (North Wales)  
> Diwedd y gân yw'r geiniog - At the end of the song comes payment. (Welsh Proverb)


End file.
